


State of grace / a closing flower

by sshysmm



Series: 12 days of carnivale 2018 [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: 12 Days of Carnivale, F/M, Ficlet, Hands, One Shot, Pre-Canon, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot, not a hand job but a hand job is certainly implied, this is short and I am sorry I meant to write more but ran out of time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 06:05:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16989441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/pseuds/sshysmm
Summary: Francis and Sophia share a moment before the expedition. Handssssss. Touching. You know.





	State of grace / a closing flower

**Author's Note:**

> Someone on the dreamwidth smut prompts was after hand jobs for them, and I was gonna write that but I ran out of time (Macbeth calls!). If that prompt is still unfilled then I'll try my best to get to it later.

“I had thought myself in a state of grace: free, at last, from obligation. Free in your favour.”

Those big blue eyes look up at him, so full of sympathy. Francis smiles despite himself because she will not yield: the feeling in her eyes is a generous sop that belies the determination in her thin mouth and her tight jaw. There is nothing to be won here — he has her love, but she will not take emotional blackmail from anyone, for any reason.

“It is not like that, and you know it. Just do this thing for me, Francis.

Keep him safe.”

“I will do that for you.”

He turns the hand that is held in his own so that it faces upwards. Her fingers hook loosely in his palm, meeting his own gesture without hesitation: warm and comfortable.

Francis meets her gaze, but he lets his own fingers trace the lines that curve around her thumb. They are like the veins of a leaf, or streams in a gentle sloping valley that arcs towards the hollow at the centre of her hand. Just the barest touch of his fingertips and he feels her shiver, her hand folding reflexively inwards, a flower closing its head.

Why is it that she makes him think these things? She is a woman of the city, through and through, but in his mind she comes with garlands of flowers, set in verdant scenes he himself can barely imagine. She is his Persephone, only in this reality it is Hades who occasionally bobs his head up to the surface of the earth, resting a while in the company of Spring before he returns to the ice and dark.

He pushes his fingers into the closing space, the cup at the centre of her palm. He gently increases the pressure of his forefinger to her skin, then lifts it to the silken area where her hand meets her wrist. Francis eases his touch along the line from her hot pulse down again to the hollow of her hand.

Colour has risen to her neck and cheekbones and she looks away, surprised at how effectively his movements brings back memories of another, more intimate touch. She does not withdraw her hand though.

Francis lets his smile turn indulgent and turns her chin back towards him with his free hand, leaning in at the same time as she does for the anticipated kiss.

“And who will keep me safe?” he murmurs against her lips.

Her expression is coy now, her tone teasing as she answers. “That remains to be seen.”


End file.
